KT
by sirscreen
Summary: She couldn't remember anything past four years ago. At night she dreams of gunfire and dead bodies. She doesn't know who she is working for. Only that if she doesn't do as they ask, she will die. Now, an enemy has emerged from her black world.
1. Information

**I'll try to make this story a stand-alone, but no promises. If you have any questions, just ask.**

** THIS GOES FOR THE REST OF THE STORY: I DO NOT OWN NCIS... OTHERWISE IT WOULDN'T BE NEARLY AS GOOD!**

** Previously...**

_ I slipped quietly through the forest. The encrypted cell they gave me told me the extraction point was right around here._

_ I felt no shame in shedding my Marine Uniform. Any pride that came with wearing it had been buried in some battlefield. Now it had allowed me to do what I did best._

_ Kill._

_ I made it to the extraction point, wearing the clothes of the dead Serb I had put my camies on. A chopper was waiting, along with a team and a man._

_ I walked up to him. He smiled, "You must be our newbie. Call me Tarquin."_

_ I didn't need to. I already knew his real name. He was Harrison Ambler. A Secretary for the State Department, officially. Unofficially, he was a high member of Consular Operations, the Intelligence Service of the State Department._

_ "Your new codename is Trev," he says, "Welcome, to the Political Stabilization Unit."_

* * *

_ "Booth," said Trev, "Problem."_

* * *

_"Hodgins, I got a mysterious powder for you to identify in exchange for classified intel," I proposed._

_ The scientists head jerked up, "I think I have a man-crush," he confessed to his wife._

* * *

_ "I got your test results back," he said as he handed me a folder, "Antmethamphedrine. It's a-"_

_ "Neuro-suppressant. Rare, used as a hopeful Huntington's med. Slows down nerve reactions to a almost standstill," I finished._

_ "Ugh, yeah. It's also called anti-meth. Instead of sending the brain into a frenzy it slows it down," he said, "I found something weird, though."_

_ "How weird?"_

_ "This stuff was coated into tiny capsules of different material," he said, "A wide variety of proteins that would have taken a while to break down in the body. Anywhere from a few seconds to a few days."_

_ A light bulb went over my head, "Keep me from overdosing and from them to continuing to dose me," I said, "This would have taken serious medical and chemical knowledge and equipment. Rules out a pissed of terrorist group. They don't have the patience or brains," I got out of the office._

* * *

_ Sarah McGee has been declared missing at 0400 hours this morning. She had not made contact with anyone and McGee was trying to find out why._

* * *

_ Computers are interesting things. They can store massive amounts of information in a very small space. They can do advance calculations in the blink of an eye. They can measure any similarity down to the atomic structure._

_ Which is what happened. The lady who gave the computers interesting work, who commanded them with evidence and data, had given them a new piece to analyze._

_ Computers, being machines, were set to the user's preference, and as such displayed the collected data n a way that made sense to the user. And, being computers, they new nothing of the sadness felt by their mistress. They new nothing of the friendship between their subject and their leader. Currently, it was working piece of blood work._

_ The computer matched the blood from the body in the autopsy basement to Special Agent Kate Todd. The computer screen showed that it matched Special Agent Todd's blood profile 99.9%._

_ Computers, being machines, also recorded further the match. In most cases, the match was 99.99999~%._

_ In this case, it was 99.9143858284950200001%_

** KT**

_Bang! Bang! Bang!_

_ "Ag- K- To-"_

_ "N-S! F-"_

_ "T-"_

_ "I need coffee."_

_ "You bastard!"_

I jerked my eyes open. I could feel the sweat and taste the sourness of morning breath. I rubbed my head and sat up. The headaches set in as they always do. The jumbled images and sounds of my past life still rang in my head. I quickly recorded everything in the notepad I kept by my bed for just such an occasion.

I rolled off the bed and onto my face. I began my morning push-ups. When I reached one hundred I flipped over and began sit ups. Another hundred. I jack-knifed to my feet and got on my treadmill.

Three miles later I helped myself too breakfast. Orange juice and a protein bar. My modest house in the middle of Savannah's suburbs was quiet as a tomb, as it always is. I dressed and grabbed my sketch pad.

I just hoped I wouldn't have to kill anyone today.

**Trev**

_"Wake up, grab beer, grab rear,_

_shave beard, put on some scene gear,"_

I pushed my way through the crowd of clubbers. I hated clubs. They were loud, noisy, smelled of pis, vomit, and sweat, and, unlike a battlefield that also had those attributes, was unlikely to explode in a gunfight. I'll remedy that last part soon enough.

"_Gotta get drunk before my mom wakes up,_

_Break-up with girlfriend so I can bang sluts."_

At least the music was good. The Cougars used to listen to Taylor Swift. Well, she is talented and hot. That alone says much about our standards.

_I'm undead, unfed_

_Been sleeping on bunk beds_

_Since ten_

_So if I don't booze it, I'm gonna lose it_

_Everybody get to it, do it, get ruined_

I pushed my way to a alcove in the back. A big black guy in a expensive white suit without a tie was sitting down in the alcove. He was surrounded by bigger black guys with poorly concealed weapons. They were also dressed in cheaper clothes. Two young women were pawing the boss and drinking cocktails. It was weird that they were both blond.

The second he saw me he snapped his fingers. I smiled. This would be fun.

_When I start drinking_

_My dick does all my thinking_

_Hoes want to be scene with me_

_And I like their big thick titties_

The one on the right tried to grab my arm. I shot my left arm forward and broke his elbow. I used my right hand to grab his neck and threw him into his buddy.

I spun around and knocked away the handgun of the guy behind me. I kicked his knee to the side, breaking it. I finished with a blow to the junction between the jaw and skull. A knockout.

Another came out of the crowd. I pushed his gun to the outside. I grabbed his neck and pivoted, throwing him to the ground. I jerked my hand forward, crushing his windpipe.

_Drink fast and enjoy your buzz_

_Take back streets to avoid the fuzz_

_I wanna take you home but your friends won't let ya'_

_I got a 40 in my Ford Fiesta_

_Another _guy came out. Well , this is the ghetto. These guys breed like rabbits. I just settled for a kick to the groin and a blow to the back of the neck. Hey, I was annoyed.

I turned to the boss. He was doing a good job of keeping calm. Not against my eyes, however. He was essentially sweating bullets under his calm demeanor.

Dear God, another one came out. He tried to charge me. Guns have a range for a reason. Then again, these guys were probably bad shots. I backhanded him in the jaw and hit him I the back of the neck. Judging by the increased worry, that was the last one.

_So I'll beat my meat like I'm a fuckin' butcher_

_And I'll punk the pussy like I'm Ashton Kutcher!_

I walked up to the now unprotected gang boss and grabbed his collar. I threw him into the ground. I brought my boot down onto his stomach. He gasped in pain and curled into a ball. I took him by the back of his collar and dragged him into the bathroom.

I shoved him against the wall. I said, "Here's how it works. I ask a question. You answer with absolute honesty, and you don't leave here a black Jew," for emphasis, I drew my K-bar fighting knife.

He scowled at me, "You don't kno-"

I hit him in the nose with the but of my knife. His nose started to bleed profusely. I grabbed his neck and pushed him against the wall, blade at his face, "Yes, I do know who I am messing with. I'm not afraid or impressed. However, I need some info that you can provide."

"What?"

"A few months ago a woman entered the city. I want to know who she was."

"What makes-"

I pressed the blade harder, drawing blood, "She's black ops. Better than the usual hitman you get. No one that good enters a city and leaves unnoticed. She probably bought supplies or gear. You knew, I want to know where she came from."

"I don't know!" he protested truthfully, "Some city on the east coast, that's all I know, I swear!"

I let him drop to the ground. I wiped my blade on his ruined suit. I placed my knife back in it's sheath. I got out of the club. If she came from the east coast, then their was one city she probably came from.

DC was full of rich, powerful men with secrets and loose morals, plus weak stomachs. It was the Los Angeles of assassins.

* * *

Here's what I know:

Someone's out to kill me. No surprise.

Someone who actually has a good chance at killing me. _That's_ a surprise.

First they tried to capture me. They used a rare drug, coated in proteins designed to be broken down in my body at different intervals so that I wouldn't OD.

The drug came from J&J's Pharmaceuticals.

From the records I stole from J&J, the batch used on me was delivered to a warehouse owned by Armorex Corp. Armorex makes the armor plating used by the Navy.

Armorex is a dummy corp. it is owned by Hellborne Industries, which makes all the wonderful toys so beloved by those who like killing people. People like me.

J&J is owned by Sarah Anderson, a bleeding heart who sends money and meds to Doctors Without Borders. She built a school in Niger, where tribes are fighting for control. Hellborne is owned by Robert Claypool, who is believed to have _started _that war to sell weapons. I had a money laundering buddy of mine look into it, and there was no money transfer. That meant it had to be pro bono. That meant the two had too see eye-to-eye. Not likely.

No connection. At least, not one that made sense. Because, though Brennan will consistently say that it does no matter _why_, only _how, _that's not how I work. Booth is with me on that. _How _is only have the answer. _Why _tells you more. _Why _tells you were else to look. _Why _tells you if it is justified or not.

_Why _tells you their emotions. It tells you if they lie at a glance. I read people. _Why _is important.

But at this point, I'm looking if their birthdays are close together. I got nothing.

I had all the stuff I could get on the two leads, The Bitch that almost beat me and the companies. The Bitch is obviously connected to the companies. They probably paid her. She's probably just some hired muscle. Problem was, how the hell, with all my contacts in the underworld, did I miss such a skilled colleague? I should have at least a small bit of knowledge.

Her fighting style was unique. That throw was textbook Secret Service. Her other maneuvers, however, were her own style, a mix of Judo and Krav Maga. I had always prided myself in my specialty in hand-to-hand combat. No one could beat me on equal ground like that. She hadn't even fired her weapon.

I rubbed my brow. It was getting late. I needed to hit the streets tomorrow, see if any one of my contacts know someone who fits the description. I put my Mk 23 under my pillow and turn out the lights, falling into the light coma that constituted sleep for me.

**Please Review!**


	2. Assignment

**KT**

I sat on my park bench sketching something. It was a memory, a not clear one. It showed a man, early thirties, leaning against a wall. At least, I think it was early thirties. I couldn't get his face right. All the sketches in my pad, I just couldn't get the face right. A man sanding a boat. A woman in a lab coat and, oddly, platforms. A young man at a desk. And, now a man leaning against a wall. I could see, in my minds eye, a blazing smile, carefree and juvenile, on his face. But, no matter how hard I tried, I couldn't put it right in paper. It bugged me. Nothing was quite right. Like a nagging voice saying, _you're wrong_ but not explaining how.

I had been started work on this sketch yesterday. Today, it would almost be complete. The detail was amazing. I got the background perfectly. It was set against a wall with high windows. I remember being slightly annoyed that they didn't open. I also remember hearing _his _voice go _"What is this, the space shuttle?"_

Now, who is _he?_

The man wore a button-up shirt and durable pants. He wore nice strong loafers, professional, yet sturdy and comfortable. I could sense he was immature, but lovable, like a little brother. In the corner, I put, _Love, KT._

My initials. If only I could remember what they were.

The Organization, as I learned to call it, had given me the identity Sandra Alexander. I live in Savannah, Georgia, and I work a stock broker for myself. I earn enough, for a quaint house, cozy, in a nice neighborhood. I mostly keep to myself, not bothering to go to any of my neighbor's get-togethers.

But that is not me. Nor is the job the Organization had given me. I was forced to moonlight as their private assassin. I don't know how. I don't know why. But, one day they found me, and they wiped my memory. I remember nothing until four years ago.

They did things to me. They destroyed my memory, though not completely. They programmed in me knowledge of more than twenty languages. They set in me fighting techniques and protocols. They surgically implanted an explosive device next to my heart.

But the worst thing they did. They fixed me.

They...

_Spayed..._

me.

If I ever found a way to get rid of the explosive in my chest, I would hunt them down. And I would kill them.

Someone sat next to me. I recognized his face. I asked, "Who now?"

"149, Montegomery Way, Washington, DC," my handler answered.

I whistled, "Coming to little old me to kill someone that important. Some one of our own must have died. Makes me sad."

"Sarcasm is noted. Get it done," he ordered, getting up from the park bench. I wanted to kill him with my pencil.

**The next morning, DC...**

_RingRingRing_

_ I hate that phone,_ Tony DiNozzo thought as he rolled over in his bed. He grumbled as he answered his phone, "It's too early for this... yes boss... no, I'll call Ziva and pick her up. See you in an hour... bye Boss." he grumbled a complaint.

His partner, now in more than one sense, grumbled too. It had been a late night for both of them. Of course, they didn't complain last night. They really should work on enforcing the rule that said no sex when they had to be in at work early. Then again, with Gibbs as a boss, that might be only twice a month. They had been dancing around each other for a good five years.

She turned over, facing him, "That leaves no time for us to shower."

"Separately."

"I was hoping yo would go there..."

**At the crime scene...**

Gibbs was taking witness statements when Tony and Ziva arrived. As long as they kept it out of the office, he didn't give two turds what they were doing at home. At least, as long as Ziva did not end up pregnant out of wedlock. Then, his boot would be so firmly planted up DiNozzo's ass it would stay their till his autopsy. He and McGee had a bet going on who would pop the question first. DiNozzo better not fail him this time.

The scene was the sight of a Navy Admiral. He was leaving his townhouse to go to work at the Pentagon. Someone had placed a bomb under his vehicle and remote detonated it. They found what looked like the remains of a radio a few meters from the charred vehicle. The device appeared to have been placed on the fuel tank. Bomb Squad had just cleared the area.

"What do you see, Ziva?" he asked.

She studied the grass around the car, "The killer rolled out from under the car, then proceeded to..." she scowled, "The killer did not leave a trail, Gibbs. This is a trained killer."

"Foreign intelligence?" he asked. What was meant was _Mossad?_

DiNozzo quickly jumped to her rescue, "Maybe. Or, could be one of our own."

Gibbs almost smiled at his protectiveness of his new girlfriend, "Yeah, could be, DiNozzo, could be. Or could be a professional hitman."

McGee was dusting the fence for prints. The house had a large, wrought iron and brick fence. So far, he had come up clean. He looked up and saw something.

"Hey, Boss," he called over, "Blind spot where the cameras are at. This might be where I guy got through."

"Get those videos, anyway McGee," he commanded, before going to Ducky, "What have ya got, Duck?"

"Ah, Jethro, it appears our admiral was killed rather violently," he stated, "This man was blown from the car. It is more probable that he died as a result of his organs smashing against his rib cage than by the fire. It reminds me of a time when I autopsy this young man who died in a car accident. Yes, he was going over a hundred miles per hour, and smashed into a wall. His airbag protected him, no broken bones at all. But, alas, poor fellow, he died when his heart was ripped from it's veins in the sudden stop and he bled out instantly."

Gibbs had stopped listening after the word "fire".

**Trev**

I opened the door to my motel room. In my arms were two bags. One was take-out. The other was a kit I purchased off a gun-runner.

I turned on the TV and began work. My .45ACP H&K Mk23 needed... modifications.

The .45 Automatic Colt Pistol cartridge was an old design, but very reliable. You see, back in the days of WWII, when it was designed, powder wasn't the best. So, though the .45 is a trusted and tested round, it lacks high velocity and doesn't have a very flat trajectory when compared with newer rounds.

Which is why I am modifying my SOCOM to take the newer .45 Super. Technically, I could simply just load the newer rounds into my pistol and that would be fine. But it would also decrease the life of my pistol. So, I'm going to modify it with a stronger spring and strengthened firing pin, plus a stronger barrel so that the thing wouldn't blow up in my hand. To compensate for the faster, which means louder, round, I switched to a pneumatic suppressor, specially modified for this(I use and loose Mk 23's and USP's a lot, so the guy I get these from has learned to have a few on standby.)

While doing so, I listened to the news. Currently, they were talking about the stock market. I listened with only half an ear. Done, I loaded the rounds into the magazine and slid it home, pulling back on the slide with a satisfy _snick._

I pulled out my Five-seveN(no, I didn't spell it wrong). I had gotten a hold of (highly illegal) armor-piercing 5.7x28mm rounds. The Five-seveN is a good gun. But, I like my slides metal. So, I switched the polymer slide for a prettier nickel plated slide and added a tactical flashlight on the accessory rail.

Interesting. The news was reporting on the murder of an admiral. An admiral I personally knew. Jack worked in procurement. If the Navy decided to use it, they would have to impress him.

Hellborne was working on getting a new machine gun contract from the Navy. Worth millions.

I got another lead.


	3. setting the trap

**Trev.**

"Hi Frank," I greeted as I sat down at the table. The money launderer spat out his hot dog in surprise.

He tried to get up and get away, but I pulled him back down onto the bench by the collar. To further persuade him that it was in his best interest to stay quiet, I jammed a plastic bag holding my silenced .45 into his side. He gulped, "What do you want?"

"Someone's paying a Navy procurement Admiral," I said, "I want to know who."

"I can't help unless-" he was interrupted by me giving him a flashdrive.

"Breaking into a bank is not as hard as it sounds," I said, "Fortunately, the IRS is much easier."

* * *

I cocked back the charge handle of my Uzi submachine gun. Earlier I had modified it with a red dot sight. It was the morning after the assassination of the first admiral.

Most people think that lots of careful planning goes into assassinations. The problem is that careful planning tends to make complex plans, with lots of moving parts and loose ends. The key is to use planned scenarios and adapt them to the changing present. It's sorta like football. You can practice all you want on the plays. But, as soon as that ball is snapped, shit happens.

Use plays, not plans.

This is one of my favorite scenarios. Up close, random, and bloody.

I sat quietly in the bush, calming my hammering heart. I wasn't nervous. Just tired. The target had chosen to go running on a trail in this park. I was hiding in the bushes, because I had to double time it through the brush. Not fun.

I screwed on my suppressor. Now, all I had to do was wait.

I heard him before I saw him. The sound of running shoes on the pavement. I waited in the bushes, waiting for him to come into view.

When he did, I brought my Uzi to bear and squeezed the trigger. The loud _pftpftpftpftpft! _Echoed through the park.His body jerked with the multiple impacts of the specialized 9mm Parabellum rounds. He fell to the floor.

I quickly went over to the body. All thirty rounds had impacted his upper chest at full auto. That's pretty damn good, if I say so myself. I searched the pockets of his sweats and found a iPhone. If I remember correctly, then these things have GPS. I quickly shut the thing off and shoved it into my pocket. This would come in handy.

I now had bait.

**NCIS**

Gibbs was getting _very _pissed. McGee had checked all of the bank financials of the Admiral, his wife, and all the companies competing for the Navy weapons contracts. Nothing even remotely came up. Tony and Ziva had run down all the names of the wife and the CEO's f the companies. All of them had alibis. Abby had run the forensics, and all she could come up with was that it was an ammonia derived bomb, impossible to trace. The trigger was made of the remains of an RC car. Ducky could find nothing useful on the body.

Meanwhile, Gibbs was buzzing around the office like an angry bee, unable to sit still even for a tiny moment. To make matters worse, the coffee machine broke and the local coffee store had closed so that the owners could go on vacation. In addition, his house was being fumigated and he couldn't get any woodworking done. A recipe for a very bad day.

It only made matters worse when they found another dead admiral.

"That's a pretty tight grouping, Duck," Gibbs observed.

"Ah, yes Jethro," Ducky agreed gravely, "Agent David, how many shell casings did you find?"

"None," she called out, "Whoever did this collected their brass."

DiNozzo said, "That takes real presence of mind, doesn't it Ducky?"

The ME nodded, "That it does, Anthony."

"Serial killer?" Gibbs theorized.

"Maybe," Ducky said, "Whoever did this is organized, violent, amoral, skilled, but above all, calm."

"Calm?" Gibbs asked.

"Yes. You see, most serial killers kill for the thrill, for the emotion, he feeling of being alive. Even hitmen and trained assassins have trouble being this calm. It is almost as if it is a business transaction for him. See the tight grouping? His blood wasn't pumping when he slew this man. Whoever did this did this for a, what seemed to him, a logical reason, and that logical reason only. We, my dear Jethro, are dealing with a professional. A cold hearted killer."

**Please review!**


	4. Baiting the trap

**Sorry for not updating in a while. Day after tomorrow is out first football game and our coaches have turned into slave drivers from Hell. bot only that, but teachers assign homework out the ass. so i haven't had much time to write. Anyway, enjoy and review please!**

**KT**

_Smack!_

I find that I don't have nightmares after killing a person. I don't lay awake at night, I don't feel guilty at all.

What disturbs me is my indifference. I don't know why. I think I might have had morals in my past life. The life I don't remember.

What I do to relieve that guilt about not feeling guilty is hitting a punching bag all night. It calms me. I've been at it for a while. That much I know.

My cell phone rings. The encrypted one that they gave me, incase they needed to reach me in an emergency.

I answered it, "Activate 1-25-35-6-7," I said so they wouldn't detonate the charge in the phone, "What do you want?"

"We have a situation," it's encrypted already, why do they need a voice changer? "Our man in the Navy procurement program has been assassinated."

"And I'm on call so you want me to do... what?" I asked.

"Find the man who did this... and terminate him," jeez, terminate? Be a normal human being and just say kill.

I just hung up. I learned long ago the line they afforded me.

What I wasn't expecting was the... familiar... sense of purpose. The familiar sense of purpose in trying to find a murderer.

Now if only I wasn't one myself.

* * *

An ambush is like a wedding. You scout the location, never settle, and you might not get another shot at it.

There are a few things that must be accomplished before an ambush can take place. Your target has to be there. You've gt to strip them of their advantages, while simutaniously adding to your own. Things like positioning it so that you have the hgh ground is one example. Disabling their weapons is another.

It's also like fishing. First, you have to get them interested. Then, you have to get them to bite. Finally, you have to reel them in.

For that, you need bait.

Did I mention that the phone I stole from the admiral has GPS?

* * *

2 Admirals dead. The only link was that both of them worked in procurement.

"Hey Boss," McGee said, "I found something!"

"On the plasma," Gibbs ordered. McGee brought up a credit card transaction.

"Our 2nd Admiral purchased an iPhone four months ago, and just paid the new bill a week ago. Now, we searched both him and his house and we found no iPhone. Which means..."

"Whoever killed Admiral Jackson has his phone. Trace it, McGee."

"Already did, Boss, phone is either off or the GPS is disabled," McGee said.

"Does anyone have anything we can use?" Gibbs asked loudly. This couldn't be happening. No one was good enough to get away with _2 _murders and for them to be stonewalled like this. Both crime scenes were devoid of physical evidence, which Abby found very disappointing. In Jackson's body Ducky found a mess of bullet fragments. The bullets had a hollow lead core, instead of the more usual solid lead core. When the bullets impacted, they literally shook themselves apart, without leaving enough solid pieces to match striations with. Abby was trying to humpty-dumpty the pieces together to get a complete bullet, but warned not expect miracles.

* * *

**KT**

_ Hacking... hacking... hacking..._

I stared at the computer screen, very bored. Really, how hard is it for a semi-AI computer to hack a telecommunication company's GPS records? This stuff was more encrypted than the Pentagon I stole a year ago. At least then, the Captain I bionked was at least good in bed. He was so nice and considerate I actually had a small reservation about killing him.

I gulped at my coffee, straight black. I'd say that I probably liked black coffee in my past life, but this stuff is knarly. It is familiar, however.

Finally! The program had hacked the company. I accessed the records and started a search for Jackson's phone.

_Searching... searching... searching..._

My God, how many people named Jackson have an iPhone?

Wait... _My God... My God..._

_ "Ah!" _I screamed as my head exploded in white-hot pain, and I was assaulted with memory.

_"Rejoice, Rejoice, E-ma-ah-ah-nuel..."_

_ The smell of the candles... a priest breaking bread..._

_ "Forgive me Father, for I have sinned."_

I wearily picked myself up off the floor. I could remember everything that I saw, that I heard, that I smelled, felt and tasted.

Catholic. I was Catholic in my old life.

I licked my dry lips, and tasted blood. I checked. I had a nose bleed. Aneurysm. Damn. A few more episodes like those could be deadly. Then, I wouldn't need for them to detonate the charge in my chest.

Finally, I found the phone that belonged to Jackson. I transferred the data to my own phone, so that if-

Damn. The phone just got activated. At a power relay station in Manasses.

I grabbed my Glock .45 and my ceramic knife. I would need both at a power relay station.

* * *

"Boss, got a hit!" McGee called, "Jackson's phone was just activated. Power relay station in Manasses!"

"Gear up!" he ordered needlessly. The team already had their SIGs and picked up their backpacks. They were already cursing the rain that was falling hard in the night.

**Please Review!**


	5. Springing the Trap

**Okay, everyone. I just got drilled by... well, every mother over two hundred and fifty pounds who plays O-Line on the team. So, I don't have a concussion(if I did, they wouldn't let me play on Thursday) but I am a little loopy. So, towards the end were I pick it up, it may be a bit confusing.**

** KT**

I parked my car across the street from the power relay station. The rain was pouring. Whoever took that phone was an idiot, letting me track them like that.

I, however, am not an idiot. The NCIS team that is investigating the admiral's death was already there. I'll just let them do the dirty work and pick him up when they get to their cars.

* * *

**Trev**

I love ambushes. They are like weddings. Careful planning goes into them, they have to go off just right, and this one I've been planning for years.

Not this particular one. One using this location.

A power relay station is essentially a junction of a lot of power cables. A local computer communicates with it's central counterpart and essentially delivers power to different locations. Because of this, lots of hospitals, schools, and police stations power depends on these junctions. As a result, these things have pretty good security.

The complex is surrounded by a high, electrified fence with concirta wire atop. Concirta wire is a newer version of barbed wire. But while barbed wire uses spikes and is relatively straight, concirta wire is coiled and uses _razors_. Those things will literally skin you alive if you aren't careful.

Other than that, however, it's "guarded" by technicians who keep everything up and running. A few blows with my fists and they were in lala land.

And that fence and those concirta wire? In addition to making a place hard to get into, they also make it hard to _get out of._

Now, I have to get rid of the NCIS team in here.

I had cut the power to here, and the neighboring buildings. No lights would be switched on unless they were carrying torches.

I hid in the shadows of the maze of power cables and relay posts. I wore my ops uniform, dark blue and gray digital camo pattern, soft soled combat boots. It makes me feel as if I'm back in the Corps.

I see Gibbs and Co. enter the complex. They get within six feet of the maze when a small bit of electricity jumps off a relay post and zaps the gun out of his hand. I wonder if he's gonna-

Nope. Any experienced officer would have requested reinforcements and closed off the compound. Gibbs is gonna have his team go in in pairs. McGee and Gibbs and David and DiNozzo. Well, this will be more interesting.

They enter, carrying the nightsticks that they carry in their cars but never anywhere else. Doesn't matter.

I think David will do. She enters with DiNozzo, watching his six. Doesn't matter. In this rain, my footfall will be masked and it's darker than the cold places in Hell.

I sneak up to her side and hide behind a relay post. I wait for her to go past...

I clamp my hand over her mouth and slam my other into her larynx, muting her. She spins around, and aims a punch wildly at my center mass. I knock it inside and uppercut her chin, sending her to unconsciousness. I drop her noisily and run behind another post.

"Ziva?" DiNozzo called. When she didn't answer, he called, "Ziva!" he turned around to where he heard her falling. I see him feel around for her in the molted shadows cast from the lights across the street. He picked her up and craddled her head into his hands, "Ziva! _Wake up! Gibbs!"_

I backed farther into the shadows. They would get out of the compound. Now I had to wait for the real prey.

* * *

I saw the NCIS team drag their comrade out into the temporary building used as an office by the workers. Damn. This guy is good.

I got out, a ceramic blade in hand. I slipped unseen through the gate that NCIS left open.

I cautiously stepped into maze. The rain was pouring down hard. Senses like hearing and seeing him would be useless. The rain neutralized all footfall, and it is possible to walk in puddles without making noise. And it was so dark that I could barely see a few feet in front of me. I would have to rely on the sense of smell.

One of the experiments they did on my increased my sense of smell. I could smell four times better than the average person. I could probably smell him in this weather.

If the wind was blowing.

_Splash._

I whirled around, peering into the darkness. I smelled nothing. I heard nothing. I saw nothing.

A fist materialized from the darkness and smashed into my gut. I doubled over, gasping for breath. I quickly crouched into a fighting stance, knife at the ready.

Nothing. Nothing but darkness.

"Hehe," to the right. I slashed out, cutting nothing but air. A voice said, "Over here," left. Another miss, "Behind you," fuck!

Who the hell can do this? No one is that good in the dark.

"You're outta your league," I slashed at the source. I felt a hand grab me and twist the knife out of my hand. Another smacked my upper arm, turning me away from him. I felt his foot connect with my back.

I grazed a relay post.

**Trev**

_CRACKLE! ZAP! BUZZ!_

A blue bolt of electricity zapped her away from the post, throwing her a food four feet. She fell to the floor, unmoving, her right arm with a severe burn.

That was... I will not say it. To cliché.

Unexpected. That'll work.

I went over to her and felt her pulse. It was still strong. I didn't really plan that part. I would have just knocked her out cold. But, when in doubt, improvise.

I glanced at the relay post that zapped her. They would definitely find her DNA there. I could use this to my advantage. I'll electronically bug their forensics lab and, if she's found, get her ID.

I had personal beef with this Bitch. She's the one who beat me in Chicago. She won that battle, but I won the war.

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	6. Ziva's Concussion

**Okay, the first part of this is funny, the second part is a little sad. Either way, enjoy and review please!**

Gibbs quickly cleared the table as Tony set the still unconscious Ziva on it. Gibbs pulled out his penlight and checked her pupils. Dilation was slow, but there. She'd live, but for a few hours when she woke up, she'd have a hell of a headache.

"What the hell, DiNozzo?" Gibbs growled, "I thought you had her back?"

"I did, Boss," he protested, "But it was so dark out there that he could have come from the side and would have never seen him coming."

"Well, if he could take out Ziva," McGee began.

"He could take out us all," Gibbs finished. He mentally kicked himself. It was a major tactical mistake on his part to order his team in there without any backup. Ziva could have been knocked into one of those relay posts and killed.

"Hrrrmmmm," Ziva groaned waking up from her slumber, "Grrrrmaaaa."

"Ziva," Tony was at her side in an instant, "You okay?"

She opened her her eyes and groaned, "Owwww," she closed them again, "Light hurts," her voice had a noticeable slur in it.

"McGee, turn off the lights!" Tony ordered. McGee did so.

When Ziva opened her eyes again, she it didn't hurt quite as much. It might be because they dimmed the lights. She blinked a few more times till it stopped hurting.

"Are you okay, Ziva?" the words seemed to come from far away. Her thoughts were sluggish, and she could hear a ringing from behind her eyes.

She saw faces, familiar ones. Pretty Man looked at her worriedly. Why was he worried?

"She's got a concussion, DiNozzo," Silver Man growled.

"Let's get her to Ducky," Pretty Man said.

Why would she need a duck?

"Because you got a concussion, Ziva." Pretty Man answered, "And please stop calling 'Pretty Man' in front of Gibbs!"

She was talking out loud?

* * *

"Hmm," Ducky said, "Well, she certainly does have a concussion. She should not go to sleep for the next twenty-four hours."

"I'll make sure she doesn't sleep," Tony volunteered. Everyone stared at him, except Ziva who said "Yay!" in an almost drunk voice.

"Not that way!" he exclaimed, and then Ziva whined, "Awww."

"DiNozzo..." Gibbs growled.

"I won't do anything of the sort, Gibbs!" Tony assured.

Ziva whined again, "Why not?"

* * *

**Trev**

I dropped her still unconscious form into the metal chair. I had two units in Oso's self-storage place. One unit held a cache complete with weapons, ammo, medicine, gear, burn ID's, canned food, MRE's, and a futon in case I needed somewhere to crash at night.

The other unit was specially decorated by me for interrogation. Which is what we are using.

I could do a lot of stuff in here to her. Oso wouldn't want the cops drawn to his highly illegal gunshop. Especially when I paid him a lot of money to buy weapons from him.

For the first time I get a good look at her. Something about her looks familiar. I scratched my head. I took a deep breathe and let my mind wander, a trick my father taught me to remember what's on the tip of your tongue but it alludes you.

_Marine Corps Base Quantico, 2003..._

_ "Hey, Lieutenant," I called, "What's the hold up, sir?"_

_ "NCIS has some invetigatin' ter do," the grizzly former Gunnery Sergeant said, "Seems someone's been smuggling hash from the Middle East ter here base."_

_ I shrugged. It was my first deployment, what did it matter to me? It just gave more time to think._

_ I pulled out the last photo we had as a family. Stevie's seventh birthday. I was fifteen at the time, and me and Mom had pulled out all stops to make the biggest cake we could. It wasn't everyday that your little brother turned seven. Pop used to say Stevie was my favorite. Damn right. Most older brothers don't like hanging out with there little brothers. Not me. I dropped everything to spend more time with him._

_ Mom and Pop flanked out family. The CIA-Agent-turned-carsalesman was on the left, Mom on the right. They looked as happy as they could be in the picture._

_ A few months after this, Mom, Pop, and Stevie were brutally murdered in our own home. This was the last picture I had of them. Sam was nineteen, I was fifteen, and Maggs was fourteen._

_ I shied away from the memories of that day like I always did. Nothing good comes from things like that._

_ My mind turned to Alyssa. I could have been nicer about telling her of my deployment. But she didn't have to fly off the handle like that. I mean, l think the act was mutual. My memory of the night is nothing but a alcohol induced blur._

_ Oh God. I don't think we used a _condom.

_This can be very bad._

_ "Platoon, ten-_shun!_" the Lieutenant called. I thought the world of him. Sam was so close, so close to finishing college and getting a job. Every cent of my paycheck went to him and Maggs. The Lieutenant, recognizing my plight of not being able to recognize them as dependents till after my first deployment, had listed them as his own. He took care of me and my family. I owed him a lot._

_ I heard the clicking of heels. Then the voice announce herself, "Special Agent Kate Todd, NCIS."_

_ Present_

I smiled at remembering who this lady was. Man, what is with that agency? They seem to make it a mission of theirs to get under my skin.

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	7. Interrogation

**Trev**

"Hey, Oso, can I use your printer?" I asked.

_"S__ì__," _he adopted a shrewd expression, _"__¿Por qué?"_

I held up a flash-drive, "Need to print some stolen, classified files."

_"O.K.," _he smiled and nodded, _"__Como siempre y cuando no es pornografía."_

"Exactly, _who _do you let use your computer?"

_"Mi esposa."_

"Say no more."

* * *

**KT**

Ow... my head... my shoulder...

I blinked my eyes open. Slowly the room came into focus.

Well, this guy is original. This isn't just a concrete bunker with me tied into a chair bolted to the ground. This place has a nice style. Plastic taupalin on the floor and walls. Makes cleaning the mess easier. The only light comes from a uncovered bulb hanging from the ceiling. Hey, he's using one of the eco-friendly ones!

I looked behind me. Well, it's either a garage or storage unit. I could see day light from the crack on the ground.

I closed my eyes and resigned myself. It will all be over soon, one way or another.

I heard the door open.

**Trev**

I walked in like I owned the place, file in my hand. It made for a good read.

"Caitlin Todd," I said, "You would be under arrest, if i was a cop. And if you had done anything illegal that I can prove. But, the only thing you did was _royally _piss me off. Which is really, _really _stupid."

She blinked, "W-what did you call me?"

"I hate it when people play dumb," I sighed, "Your name, Caitlin Todd, ring any bells?" I studied her face. And then something amazed me.

She honestly didn't recognize her name.

"You served with the Secret Service from '95-'03, then did a two year stint at NCIS till you faked your death in '05."

"I- I don't..." she shook her head, looking for all the world as if she had the beginning of a migraine.

She didn't recognize it.

I checked the photo that came with the file. She had surgery, but not much. It's a little known fact that when you change your face, you have to learn how to reuse the muscles. For this reason, the face is only changed a little bit at a time to keep the "natural" expressions and help them blend in better.

That said, a little plastic surgery goes a long way. Change the way the cheekbones look, reduce or add fat to the chin, maybe even mess with the brow a little bit, and their own mother won't recognize them. They will look like someone you once knew, but unless you have a firm grasp on bone structure, they can fly under your radar.

Things you can't change are the space between your eyes, your forehead size, and the width of the head in general. Thank you, Brennan.

It was with those that I identified her. Yep, definitely her.

I flipped the photo to her, "Caitlin Todd, 1975-2005, died, killed by a sniper on a rooftop. Well, apparently not."

She scowled and shook her head, the migraine was getting larger, "I can't remember!" she screeched.

Now, this is weird.

She isn't lying.

I did the one thing I could think of. I reached behind her head, and slapped the back of her skull.

She gasped, and choked, her face morphed into one of pure agony, she wasn't even able to scream. The only time I have ever seen that look on someone's face was when they were stabbed in the kidney. That produces the agonizing pain that can't even permit a scream.

After two minutes she stopped, gasping for a breathe. Her eyes were unfocused, and blood dripped from her nose. I stared in amazement.

"You truly don't remember."

She smiled a content smile, and leaned back, relaxed, "I have... a name... a _name..._" she said it like it was the most beautiful thing in the world, "I can... I can _remember... _a mother... a father... _brothers... _a _sister..._" and then she started sobbing tears of joy.

"What happened?" I asked.

"I- For four years, I was _trapped_, alone in the dark. Now, now I can see."

"Uh-huh," I don't need this touchy-feely bullshit, I need answers, "Who do you work for?"

"I don't know," she replied, "They put some sort of device next to my heart. It will blow in a little bit, and kill me. But, I.. am.. Kate... Mary Anne... Todd." Never mess with the value an amnesiac puts on a name they just remembered. You'd think it was their first-born son.

"Say what now?" Did she just say that _she has an explosive surgically implanted in her chest?_

I didn't stop to listen. I got out my smart phone and pulled up the Stethoscope App. It is essentially just a hyper sensitive microphone.

I placed it on her chest and listened as it magnified the beating of her heart.

Oh yeah something hard is there.

I got out the Signal Sercher App. It will detect any signal near it, whether it receives it of sends it.

No signal.

I then pulled out the EMF Scanner App (this thing is awesome!). The EMF scanner will pick up any un-biological electro-magnetic field.

No field.

"Hate to break it to you, but that bomb is about as dangerous as a pacemaker," I informed her. I actually didn't hate to inform her.

"Wait, what?"

"I guess when you got zapped it short-circuited the signal and fuse." I explained, "So, let me get this straight: amnesiac, bomb in the ticker, feelings of entrapment. My guess is, you don't like these guys."

"Shut up and let me out of here," she demanded, "I want these pigs' head on my mantle."

I think I'm beginning to like her.

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	8. Shopping

**Sorry for not updating. Life got in the way.**

** Trev**

"Robert Claypool," I said, bringing up his file, "CEO and owner of Hellbourne Munitions. Currently vying for the new Navy Shipboard-weapons contract. I've reviewed the specs, and it doesn't stand an iceman's chance in hell of passing."

"I did research on those of whom I killed," Todd said, taking a sharpie and beginning to write on the wall, similar to the murder board Kate Beckett used back in New York, "They never centered around anyone, but I looked closely, and these people showed up in one form or another."

I whistled. I heard of some of those people, some I knew personally. I had lot's of "burn" identities and I had two "legends", identities that were so well constructed that no matter how hard someone looked into them, they wouldn't find anything. One of those identities was a business man name Jon Trevinski, a man who worked part-time for TRAVCO Shipping, a very wealthy and powerful shipping business. It helps me get into countries quickly, quietly, and without notice. Also, because I am secretly the majority owner of TRAVCO, it also gives me access to large sums of money. Gob bless Capitalism.

"Claypool is on this list," I said, "And she," I pointed to one of the names, "is in charge of J&J Meds, and the drugs used on me in Shanghai. She's somehow connected,"

"Everyone of my missions always seemed to benefit these people in some form or another," Todd said, "Claypool. I killed a tribe leader who was close to ending a war in Africa financed by him. Sarah Anderson, I stole the formula of a new drug being devloped by a rival company. Next thing I know, it's being sold by J&J under a different name."

"That's all well and good, but why would they want _me?" _I asked, "I went to a lot of trouble to become invisible. I mean how did they even find me? What were your orders when you attacked me in Chicago?"

"Capture and Deliver," she said, "I was almost killed for my failure."

I said nothing. Cardinal rule among operators: Always look out for yourself if alone. Any enemy remains an enemy until you need their help.

"You don't have any idea why-"

"No," she shook her head, "I just followed orders."

"Like a good Marine," I said. I knew that logic.

"So," she said, "What now."

I looked at my watch. It was almost 1400. I had been up all night and most of the previous one as well, "Let's get some sleep. Tomorrow we take Claypool and see if we can squeeze some information out of him."

"You got a safe place to crash besides here?" she asked. Hey, if you don't like it, make your own place.

"Motel room," I said, "If anyone asks, you will be the hooker I picked up."

"You-" she gulped and pinched the bridge of her nose, pain evident in her features. She stayed like that for about thirty seconds before sighing, "I just got another memory back. Tony- my, my teammate, made an immature comment." she said it as if the idea was only half-foreign to her.

"Hmm," I looked at her. She was wearing the same clothes from last night. Namely, dark blue sweat pants, a dark blue compression shirt, and a black windbreaker. We'd have to get her some clothes.

"First we go to shopping," I said, "No offense but that shock didn't help your fashion."

**An Hour later...**

"Done yet," I asked through the door to the dressing room stall, "I hate this monkey suit."

To further sell the idea of her being a hooker and me being a John (for some reason, the spelling with an h has always irritated me. Ma said the same thing and that was why my name was spelled J-O-N.), I was wearing the expensive Italian suit that Sally had got me. I grew up shit-ass poor. Wearing this for me is like going through a rich people's home. I was afraid to break anything. Even now, when I got more money that J.K. Rowling, being in nice suits makes me feel like I was about to ruin it. It was more stressful than combat.

"I think you look nice in that suit," she replied, "And almost."

"Give me MBU's anyday," I said. God I miss the Corps, "Why do women always take forever when they shop?"

"Well, we have to make sure it fits," She said, "We have more dimensions than you. Second, we make our budget stretch. We hunt for bargains."

"You're not on a budget!" I protested.

The door to the changing booth opened, revealing a dressed and shoeless Kate Todd, "I'm not?"

I was taken aback by the stare she gave me, "No..."

What the hell? Did she just...

I looked back into the store. I saw her hurriedly picking more clothes from their hangers. How was she that fast.

Damnit, Jon, you should know better than to underestimate the prowess of a female while shopping.

* * *

"Absolutely not," I refused.

"But look at these, they are gorgeous," she said, holding up one of those torture devices called stilettos that are _not _knives. How do women move in those damn things?

"No," I shook my head.

"Come on," she puted prettily, "Ple-_ease?"_

"I've got over 600 kills. Pouting doesn't work on me."

She continued to pout. As much as I hated it, it was having an effect on me. I chalk it up to the fact that I never went to Prom and thus never had any experience with pouting women. Hey, it was either Prom or rent. I liked getting laid as much as the next football player, but priorities, man.

"Fine," I gave in.

"Thank you," she said, giving me a kiss on the cheek.

I played along, because that was our cover. But I whispered, "I don't do people I tried to kill before," or anyone really. Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder.

"Neither do I," she whispered back, followed by a quick-and painful- stomp on my foot with her stiletto clad heel.

I really, _really _hate to say it, but I like her style.

Doesn't really make it any less painful.

**Please Review!**


	9. Infiltrate

**Sorry for not updating in a while. My schedule's been kinda full. But after 4 concussions in three days my Ma put her foot down: no football for a week :( She's worried about brain damage.**

** NCIS**

After Tony left, McGee settled down to work. So far, the team's only link between the two victims was their jobs and the violent-ness of their deaths. What was worse, SLUDJ was breathing down their necks to get a piece of the action.

Special Litigation (Upper Deck) Jurisdiction was a branch of NCIS that investigated, tried, and prosecuted flag officers. And while Vance was doing a very good job of keeping the agency out of politics, NCIS was still very much the Admiralty's Gestapo. NCIS Agents were often used in witch hunts instigated by prissy admirals. And if NCIS was the Gestapo, then SLUDJ was the Death Squad.

Being part of the Major Crimes Response Team, Gibbs and his team didn't deal much with SLUDJ or admiralty. And Vance tried to keep it that way. He may play politics, but he tried to keep most of his boys out of trouble.

While the rest of the team had little experience with the politics of the Navy, Tim had once been at the forefront of the witch hunts while he served in Norfolk. He detested SLUDJ, and wasn't keen to work with them again.

Which is why he was relieved when his snooper got something.

* * *

**Next morning...**

"Robert Claypool," McGee said, "Owns and operates Hellborne Industries. He is putting up a piece of weaponry for the Navy contract. I put up a snooper that's been bouncing around all day until I finally got... this"

He pulled up financial records, "Money has been bouncing around almost a dozen Swiss banks, but I've been able to track it to our second dead admiral. The money originated from Claypool's personal account, currently under investigation for funding small wars in Africa."

Gibbs sipped his coffee, "DiNozzo, Ziva, go get Claypool. I want in my interrogation room."

"You sure-" DiNozzo was cut off with a glare, both from Gibbs and a -very tired- Ziva, "On it, Boss."

* * *

**Trev**

I pulled the Mustang over. We were in a heavily wooded area. No one see us leave the car or comeback. Before going to bed last night, we hashed out the plan.

She'd grab Claypool while I did what I did best since I was nine: cause shit. Which is why D-Linemen make the best Special Operators.

It wouldn't be easy. Claypool had his own personal army. It was filled with Force Recon Marines, SEALs, Rangers, SpecForces guys, Combat Controllers, even a couple of guys from Stab (where I used to work in the State Department) and the Office of Naval Intelligence's (Think NCIS's big brother) Destruction and Demolition Team. Those guys I wasn't worried about.

It was the former Delta and DEVGRU Operators.

Special Forces Operational Detachment-Delta(SFOD-D) and the Naval Special Warfare Development Group(SEAL Team 6, or DEVGRU) were exclusively counter-terror. Those guys could part hairs on your head from fifty feet away without thinking.

And I'd be engaging them in less than half that distance.

One thing in my advantage: I don't fight fair. In my life, I've been caught in over thirty penalties, mostly facemasking and late hits.

**Caught.**

I pulled out my spare smart phone, "Here," I handed her a wired headset. I've tapped into Bluetooth too many times to trust it, "It operates on a short beam transmission that's scrambled. Only we will hear it."

"Got it."

I grabbed the kevlar vest and combat harness. Fortunately, I managed to get a MOLLIE style one. I then lifted the floor of the trunk to reveal my armory, "Here," I handed her the FN Five-seveN, while I grabbed the SOCOM, "It'll fit you better."

She scowled (5.7mm is much smaller than the .45 Super), but took the weapon, along with four extra magazine. At twenty a piece, she already was carrying a lot of firepower. I then handed her the Uzi with the suppressor threaded. She picked up another four clips.

I grabbed the Steyr AUG with 4x ACOG scope and some... special attachments. In addition to a light and fore-handle grip, it also had an infrared laser in front. I had some special sunglasses that could see this laser, but it was invisible to the naked eye. What that meant was that I could fire from the hip with as much accuracy as if I were firing from the shoulder, and that I wouldn't need any tracers.

I looked into the car. The Tango 51 and the Mossberg 900 were still in there. I wondered, "Light or heavy?"

"Heavy," she answered, gabbing the sniper rifle, "What's this?" she asked, pointing to the thicker bulge at the end of the barrel.

"Custom built-in suppressor," I answered, "Highly illegal."

"I'll take it," she said, "Give you what cover I can."

"Thanks," I grabbed the semi-auto shotgun. I looked at her, "You sure about this?"

She slapped a mag home into the sniper. It was all the confirmation I needed.

There are two ways to brake into a compound: through the front door, all you need is an ID and janitors outfit. It's my preferred way.

The other way is more fun: hop the fence.

Well, in this case, I go through the fence. I took some spray-on insulation, rubber gloves, rubber boots, and fiber-glass wire cutters and went through it. I was carefull not to touch it.

I went around back. We timed this so that we were here at the shift change, which was really early in the morning. That said, I still made sure to steer clear of cameras.

I made it to a wall with a rain gutter leading to the roof. Bingo. Good thing I was wearing receiver gloves. These things helped grip slippery things like wet, cold metal.

That said, in addition to combat gear, I was carrying a duffle bag with pipe bombs and other goodies. Climbing was not fun.

Finally, I pulled myself up onto the roof. Damn. Back when I worked with the DEVGRU, I did climbs like this for enjoyment. I'm outta shape.

_"Trev."_

"Yeah, Todd."

_"We got a snag."_

Worst.

Four.

Words.

In.

Any

Language.

**PLEASE REVIEW! I BEG THEE! YOU CAN JUST SAY HI OR TALK ABOUT CHEESE!**


	10. Deep Shit

**I feel underwhelmed by the lack of reviews. You guys really think my work is that bad?**

"Relax. I will be fine, Tony," Ziva assured.

"You got a concussion about ten hours ago, Ziva," he protested, "Forgive me if I worry."

"We will just pick up Claypool, then make it through the rest of the work day," she said, "Then, we... recreate AC/DC."

When Tony gave her a confused look, she smiled, "_You Shook Me All Night Long."_

"Ahhh," he smiled in anticipation, then frowned, "I still don't like you going out into the field so soon," he said as he parked the car.

He made to get out, but Ziva grabbed his arm and pulled him into a quick, full kiss on the lips. She smiled and said, "For luck."

* * *

Kate Todd pulled herself up onto the roof. It wasn't a fun climb. She wasn't packing as much heat as Trev, but she still had a lot of gear. She unslung her sniper rifle and popped open the scope. She peered down into the courtyard.

The complex was built like a horseshoe. The main living quarters for the guards was on the west end, and the main lab and testing building was on the east end. The main office building was to the north, which is where she currently was.

The scope was excellent, a Leupold. She could count the hairs on someone's head from two hundred yards away.

Hey, is that-

_Shit._

"Trev."

_"Yeah Todd."_

"We got a snag."

_"What kind of snag?"_

"NCIS is here."

_"You gotta be- Please tell me it isn't Gibbs and Co."_

"Tony and my replacement."

_"Damn. She's after my blood."_

"Why?"

_"Later. Lie low. Wait till they leave."_

"Since when are you the boss?"

_"Can you think objectively with all that Claypool's people did to you?"_

"Good point. Okay, lying low. Over"

She hunkered down and placed the rifle next to her, care full to stay as hidden from the agents as she could.

"Trev, you got visual?"

_"They are entering your building. I'll tell you when they come out."_

"Got it. Over."

She settled down and hoped no one would come up for a smoke.

**15 minutes latter...**

_"Todd, they're coming out."_

She snapped back into reality, having been exploring the newly remembered memories and feelings.

_"They got Claypool."_

"Is that good or bad?"

_"Bad. If we want the intel, _we_ need Claypool."_

"What do we do?"

_"Nothing we can do but hope he somehow gets out."_

"That scumbag escape Gibbs? Unlikely."

_"Damn. Over."_

She was pissed. Kate grabbed her rifle and looked down into the courtyard. Even from a distance, she could see Tony's protective gate around his newer partner. She smiled. Tony finally found someone he could commit to.

She decreased the magnification on her scope and looked around the courtyard. Security personnel in black BDU-like uniforms patrolled near the entrances to the building. These guys looked like they went into buildings to do business. And not the gentle kind either.

She saw one of them turn to the agents and proceeded to pull out his sidearm.

Ziva reacted to it. She was to slow.

Kate wasn't.

**Trev.**

I saw the guy's head explode. The last thing going through his mind was a 7.62mm slug.

That being said: _**SHIT!**_

The other guards exploded in chaos. I saw Claypool make a run for the north office. Damn it. Wound Claypool and have NCIS capture him. Or let him get to the north building and have Todd get him, with the risk that he might escape?

If I wound him, Ziva and Tony may die because I didn't cover them.

Fu-uck.

I shot a guard in the head, "Todd, cover the agents, I'll get the guards."

_"Clear."_

I switched to full auto and fired off quick bursts, putting holes through the bozos like swiss cheese. 5.56 may not be the biggest round around, but at a few hundred yards, still lethal.

_Click._

Shit. Empty.

I pulled back the charging bolt and dropped the mag, slamming a new one home and releasing the bolt. To late. The guards had begun to mount a coordinated effort against the agents. I quickly put down the rest.

The agents quickly retreated to a water fixture in the middle of the courtyard, returning fire from their SIG Saurs. The guards started firing from the cover of the west building.

I grabbed my bag and shotgun and made for the door to the stairwell. I pulled out my pipebomb and opened the door. The way I make my pipe bombs is with the lighting mechanism of flares, dynamite, and ball bearings. Why ball bearings and not nails? Ball bearings _bounce._

I heard the stomp of feet up the stairwell. I lit the fuse and dropped it down a floor or two. Then I stepped out of the way.

_Boom!_

I walked down to the top floor and took a peek at the havoc I caused. Anything not armored, and that was most of it, was shredded to pieces. I don't envy whatever poor soul has to clean this mess up.

I put my glasses on burst into the top floor. It was a gym complex, with a weapons cage that a group of guys were currently surrounding.

I fired from the hip. Bullets ripped through them. They wouldn't show mercy to me. I won't to them.

I reloaded and checked the rest of the room. Clear.

Some one burst open the door and got a 5.56mm slug to the face for a present. He dropped like a sack of potatoes.

"Okay Todd, I got them distracted. Get Claypool."

_"Got it."_

I went back into the stairwell, and backed out as the fired at me. I grimaced in annoyance. I grabbed another pipe bomb, lit it, and threw it at them.

I forgot to check which type it was.

Instead of the usual silence after the _Boom!, _I heard screams. I made a face. It was one of my phosphorus bombs. Essentially chunks of burning phosphorus that melted skin, it was meant more of a distraction bomb than anything else. Namely because even though I'm cruel, I'm not cruel enough to use it to kill.

Which is why they got a round to the skull for mercy.

I pulled out a flashbang grenade, though it into the fifth floor entrance, and ducked behind the doorway, covering my ears.

_**BOOM!**_

I swung around, firing before I could think. Because you truly do not think in these situations. You react.

I dropped two guys in under five seconds.

Clearing rooms is much easier if you have a team. They watch your backs and shorten the sector you need to clear. Despite what you see in Hollywood, I don't do "firefights", because then we fight one even turf, which isn't how I roll.

This floor seemed to be more of an office part. Sectionals made small cubicles and fucking great places to hide. Good thing I have bombs.

The wall in front of my face splintered. I ducked and ran into the cover of an office. I pulled another bomb from my bag and threw it. And another and another.

_Boom! Boom! Boom!_

I came up and popped four guys still standing. The rest of the room was torn to pieces. I started clearing it, being careful to check my corners.

No one survived.

The door opened and someone threw flashbangs into the room. I ducked, closed my eyes, and covered my ears.

I couldn't hear worth a damn, but I could still function.

Whoever threw those was Delta for sure.

I stayed low, and waited for the ringing to stop in my ear. I remembered the way Delta cleared rooms. If I was right, one of them should be rounding the corner...

Now.

I slammed into the guy, clamped my hand on his throat, tripped him, and stabbed him in the solar plexus with my K-BAR. He bled out in a few seconds.

I moved on, relying on my returning sense of hearing to move. I avoided them in the cubicles. I heard them curse and gather around their dead comrade.

Mistake.

I jumped out and stabbed one in the lower back, using him as a shield as I sprayed the rest.

I reloaded my AUG. I was on my last mag.

I quickly went down to the third floor. I drew out a wounded circle of det cord on a sticky pad. I placed the pad on the door and lit the fuse. The device is called a hockey puck and generally turns doors into a pile of scrap wood.

_Boom!_

I moved in and shot the first person I saw. This placed look like a barracks. Racks lined the walls with footlockers in front. Like any military base in the world.

I shot at them before they could react to me. This was the easiest room.

_Click._

"Fuck!" I dropped the AUG and unslung my shotgun. I went back into the stairwell. I ambled down into the second floor.

This seemed to be kind of a visitors center. They were ready for me this time.

They opened up as soon as I got in. I dove left as rounds peppered where I was a moment before. I fired the semi-auto shotgun blindly over my head. I quickly ran out of shells and had to reload. I pulled my last pipe bomb out of my bag threw it.

_Boom!_

I ran from cover and fired, taking advantage of their confusion. I shouldered my shotgun and fired.

I shot once at one bastard and he fell, his face hamburger. The other-

_Fuck! It JAMMED!_

I dropped the shotgun and drew my .45 I'm the fastest draw in the west as he fell over from a slug almost a half inch in diameter to the face. I don't think there is a surgery for that.

I moved out and put the rest down. I cleared the room like I did the others, programmed from years of training and experience. I hadn't been in a battle this big since I left the DEVGRU.

"Drop it!"

I froze. Shit. How had they managed to get here? "Nǐ dédào le tā?" I asked into the mike, and prayed she spoke Chinese.

_"Shǐ táopǎo le. Nǐ zài nǎlǐ?" _Making the escape now. Where are you?

"Zài shēn gǒu shǐ" in deep shit.

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	11. Not my favorite technique

"Whatcha got, Abs?"

Abby whirled around, her face set in a look that said she had _no _patience today, "Well, since this crime scene is so big, there are nine other forensic scientists in the building who are also working this. Ergo, I'll only have a part of what you need Gibbs."

"Well... What do ya got, Abs?" Now Gibbs was losing patience.

Abby smiled. Gibbs always knew how to cheer her up, "I ran the fingerprints of the dead guys on the floor I was assigned, the 4th. Get this, four of these guys were former Delta Force members, three retired Special Forces, and two were, and I needed McGee's help on this one, ex-CIA Special Operations Group guys."

"So the guy in interrogation right now not only fought, but killed without getting wounded himself, nine of possibly the best warriors on the planet?" Gibbs asked, "Woulda made one hell of a Marine,"

** (A/N: I'll pause and let you absorb the irony of that comment.)**

"Now, I ran the pipe bomb he used through Major Mass Spec, and it spewed out," she took a deep breath, "Pentaerythritol tetranitrate, cyclotrimethylene-trinitramine, binder styrene-butadiene,"

"Abby!" Gibbs said in annoyance.

"Semtex, Gibbs," Abby explained, "The black market's flushed with the stuff. Get's imported from Russia and former Soviet bloc countries because they over-produce it. Almost impossible to trace to any one buyer."

"Manufacturer?"

"A factory in Poland, but this shipment was stolen months ago," Abby said, "For shrapnel this guy used ball bearings."

"Most terrorists use nails, more soft tissue damage," Gibbs said, "This guy wanted a job done," _Whoever did this did this for a, what seemed to him, a logical reason, and that logical reason only._

"Yeah, ball bearings have more stopping power than nails," Abby said, "The assault rifle was a Steyr bullpup, means all the mechanics are behind the trigger. Rounds were military grade, some of them full metal jacket. This guy wasn't planning on taking any prisoners."

"Anything else?" Gibbs asked.

"I managed to get some info out of Ron, the guy who's doing the forensics on the other building, and he said that the bullets from there were 9mm hollow points. Get this, these were the same type of bullets that were used to kill our 2nd admiral. The ones _that didn't like to cooperate,_" she hissed glaring at a machine that housed said uncooperative bullets, "The rounds fired from the roof were 7.62mm Boat Tails covered in a mixture of plastics. The plastics stayed on the bulleT until it exited the barrel, then flaked off. No way to get striations. We also found 5.7mm slugs in the office. _That _we managed to get striations off of. Came from a Five-seveN."

"That all you got?"

"Gibbs, these guys were good, like really good, like, A-Team good," Gibbs's eyebrows shot up. Even he knew who the A-Team was.

**Trev**

Hot damn, this is one fine interrogation room. Dark, cold, slightly creepy reflection in the one way mirror, metal table, eerie light hanging above my head, uncomfortable chair. Awesomeness!

Damn, if I get to interrogate people in this room, maybe I should get a job here. Wait, miserable pay, not being able to beat the shit out of suspects, _rules..._nah.

Still, a pretty nice interrogation room.

I was interrupted from my thoughts as Gibbs opened the door, slamming it. Ah, the classic "Lock a guy in a cold, dark room for a few hours, then some in loudly and accuse him of murder." It's like _Top Gun, _a classic, if unimaginative. Not _Top Gun, _the technique.

He sat down and stared, his gaze hard and unyeilding. Come on, you're better than that, where's the legendary interrogator?

He continued to stare, searching for my soul. I'd squirm, if I had a soul. You're gonna have to get up earlier than that to crack this nut, Gibbs.

Well, this can't last for long.

**Four hours later...**

Jesus Mother-Flipping No-load pus -nutted needle-dicked _Christ._ _How long must this go on?_

I will win. I will. I just have to resort to a tactic I don't like to use.

**Observation Room**

"What the-" Tony said, "Is he singing-"

_"Taylor Swift?" _

**Trev**

_"We were both young when I first saw you," _Okay, I have nothing against Taylor Swift. In all honesty she's kinda good, not to mention hot, it's just that her lyrics are just _too _catchy, so that after the fiftieth time they go through your head you just wanna commit murder-suicide.

Gibbs was completely taken aback by this tactic, obviously at a loss for words. He attempted to regroup, "What were you after in Hellbourne?"

How did you know that Hellbourne was dirty? I wanted to ask but I just continued singing, _"Baby just say yes."_

Aww, come on, Gibbs, don't go, we just got started. Hey, if you don't like my _Love Story, _maybe you'll do better with my _Hey Stephen?_

It hurt when I bit my tongue to keep form laughing.

**The irony part is that Trev's actual name is Jon Trevodur, and he served in the Marines from 02-05.**

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	12. They send in Abby

**Trev**

Now they're mixing it up a little.

I just wish they hadn't added Ziva to the mix. She'd love to put a round in my gut as is. This was going to be a little... dangerous.

"Okay," DiNozzo began, "Now, why are we interrogating you?"

That actually piqued my interest. But, alas, I had to end this quickly. I switched to, my heavily accented, Hebrew "_I hear in Somalia they beat the feet of their prisoners as torture._"

Her head snapped to me, a dangerous glint in her eyes, "Stay on the matter at hand," she hissed, "_And you have the accent of a chicken._"

Always a chicken. How does a chicken speak Hebrew? "_Fair enough. It only keeps me out of the hands of terrorists better. Saleem Ulman... he had some fame, didn't he? Specialized in breaking... spirited individuals, yes?_"

Her eyes continued to darken, and her face became set in an unemotional mask, "_I warn you..._"

I've won. I have control of the interrogation, "_Tell me, did he brake your spirit? I believe he did, and made you grovel at his-_"

I never got the rest out. She jumped at me, drawing her tanto knife. But her partner read the signs, and slammed his body into hers, driving her away from me. She struggled past him, but he wrapped his arms around her waist and pulled her out of interrogation.

So, what are they gonna do next?

* * *

Tim's turn.

I just glare at him and say, "No."

That stops him cold, "Excuse me?"

I continue to glare coldly, "Back out. Now."

He does so.

* * *

Okay, this is a first. The first forensic scientist to interrogate me.

"Okay, um, hi, I'm Abby," she says not looking me directly in the eye, "I guess since I gave you my name, you should give me yours."

Dear God, can I have a DVD of this later? I want to watch this whenever I get sad.

"John Doe," I said. Well, my first name is Jon.

"Very funny," she failed that sarcasm. Epically. Like, a bard should be here to make a poem about the epicness of that fail, "Well, I guess because you nearly got Ziva fired, not cool by the way, and scared Tim witless, and just completely threw off Gibbs, impressive, by the way,"

"Thank you,"

"I'm the only one left, so they fell back on me, partly to see how long I'd last, and partly-"

"No, no, no," I shook my head, "An interrogation is like sex: it's about control. Right now, you have none of it. Zero. Zilch. Nada."

"Oh." she looked taken aback.

"Look... Gibbs always controls the environment of the room, see?" I jerk my head up at the one light, "One light makes the corners shadowy, speaks to the subconscious of fear. Cold room, small, creepy mirror, metal table, uncomfortable chairs. Designed to make experiences in this room unpleasant and undesired."

"So... it speaks to not wanting to come back, so you spill your guts here and now."

"Exactly," I sound like a teacher explaining something to a student, "Secondly, you gotta be manipulative. Control the emotions of the other person. Keep them guessing."

"Oh," oh God, is she actually taking _notes?_

"I knew this OSI Lt. Col once, liked to just get rid of the table and sit embarrassingly close to the subject. Get them all uncomfortable and such."

"Whenever Sister Rosita believes someone changed the scorecard, she just glares them down."

"One of those glaring nuns, huh?"

"Ugh, yeah. She one time, even thought I was changing the scorecard, and I'm like 'No way.' and she's like, in this big..."

Too easy.

And... wait for it...

Gibbs finally had enough. He came bursting through the door, looking for all the world as a pissed of God Without A Beard.

He stooped down to my level, his face inches from mine. It would scare any sane man shitless.

For me it was an opportunity.

I skillfully broke the gears in my cuffs during DiNozzo and Ziva's interrogation. I just kept my hands behind my back so it would seem like I didn't.

I punched Gibbs in the throat, smashing his larynx. I reached across and grabbed his right shoulder, turning him and drawing his SIG Saur with my left hand. Using my right, I grabbed his wrist and twisted hard, spraining it. He'd be in too much pain to struggle, especially if I kept it twisted.

"Don't" I warned Abby, finger off the trigger as I maneuvered us out into the hallway.

The Dream Team burst through the door in observation, SIG Saurs in hand.

Ziva, DiNozzo, McGee. Ordered by who could nab my head the fastest.

I didn't want to. I chose a spot that would do no serious harm, and give him a lot of painkillers.

I shot DiNozzo in the shoulder.

He fell, clutching his shoulder. Ziva's face, in almost slow motion, morphed into horror as her partner and boyfriend fell from a wound.

I shot the SIG Saur from her hand. A round near McGee's head made him duck and cover.

I wheeled Gibbs around the corner and kicked the door to the bathroom in. I slammed Gibbs into the door and he hissed in pain as I aggravated his sprained wrist.

I sent him to lala land with a blow to the back of the head from his own pistol.

I took the backup he had in the ankle holster and climbed ontop of counter, pushing the sub ceiling out of the way as I climbed into the space above it.

In a matter of seconds, I disappeared.

* * *

Let me tell you something, with a little imagination, it's almost embarrassingly easy to sneak onto, or out of, a military base. For instance, I got out of the building by first pulling the fire alarm(causing an evacuation), then the cutting the power(fucking up their ability to coordinate and stopping them from saying _false alarm _over the intercom.). No one saw me leave through a back door.

The Navy Yard's perimeter used to be patrolled by good-old-fashioned Marines. Not anymore. Why, you ask? Because Jarheads cost money. It's cheaper to send them to Iraq or Afghanistan. And don't get me started on Swabbies guarding the place. Least Marines can shoot worth a damn. Now, MP's just police individual buildings.

So I hopped the fence. Like I said. Embarrassingly easy. Makes you feel safe from terrorists, don't it?

Even more embarrassing, I swiped Gibbs's wallet back there, so I took a cab back to the hideout.

Gibbs isn't a plastic guy.

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	13. Miami

"Took you long enough," Kate said as he pulled the door to the unit.

"You're just damn lucky they went for me instead of Claypool," Trev growled, his unique California/Midwestern accent leaning increasingly towards Mid-America.

"Well, as you're the one who's the walking polygraph I thought it should be you who 'interrogates' him," she snapped.

Trev's shoulders slumped. He sighed, "You remembered your morality, didn't you?" even as he said that, he didn't sound accusatory or faulting.

She didn't want to. She had known him for less than a week. But the pain, the _pain..._

"I feel... empty," Kate admitted looking at the ground. Her chest felt hollow, and she struggled to keep her muscles from trembling, "Does... does it ever stop? The guilt?"

Trev looked her with a gaze that spoke of painful experience beyond his years, "No, it never goes away."

"Then... then how-"

"You'll find that one day you'll be strong enough to bear it," Trev whispered, "I'm still waiting for that day. But for now, it's better to... let it out."

Kate didn't want to. She wanted to hold it in. to keep her pain to herself and be strong. To look strong.

But she couldn't stop it as her muscles began to tremble and her breathing hitched. She remembered the feeling. Munich Massacre Syndrome. Those men she killed in the courtyard. They were no threat to her. They couldn't have harmed her. They were completely unaware of her. But she acted like God and decided they should die. She ended their lives. They might have had families and children and sisters and brothers and parents and grandparents and grandchildren and nieces and nephews...

What she had _done, _people she had _killed, _lives she had _ruined, _in the last four _years..._

What they had _done _to her. The pain and misery and confusion and hate and anger and sadness and _everything else..._

Oh God, make the hurt _stop_.

She didn't notice when she began to cry, or exactly when her knees lost the strength to support her. Or when Trev held her and let her cry on his shoulder.

She finally closed her eyes, falling into a mercifully dreamless sleep.

**Trev**

I exited the adjacent unit. I estimated 3 hours before a SOG cleanup team arrived to kill us. Hopefully, them interrogating Claypool would by me and Kate time.

I packed up what we had left into the Mustang. Wasn't much. I lost the SOCOM, shotgun, and Steyr AUG when NCIS put me into custody, plus I had used up most of my explosives. That left us with Gibbs's snub nosed revolver, SIG Saur, and our Uzi, Tango 51, and Five-seveN.

I packed in some of the change of clothes we had as well. I kept the ceramic knife she had originally under the driver's seat.

Finally, I gently, as to not disturb her, lifted her from the small bed in the hideout and put her in the passenger seat. She barely stirred.

Even with the time it took to wipe down every solid surface, we left with 45 minutes to spare.

Priorities have changed. Before, my first priority had been to get back in. Now, I don't think I ever want back in. Kate, she had been in for a year less than me, and she had experienced more pain in those short four years than I had in my entire eight year history of operations, first in the Marines then as an operative.

I wanted out. And I wanted to bring her back to the light with me.

* * *

Kate woke up about four hours into the drive. She looked around at the road surrounded on all sides by dense woodland. She asked, "Where are we going?"

"Miami," I replied, "Their Black Ops is headquartered there."

* * *

The doctors didn't even have to resort to surgery to remove the bullet. It had passed almost clean through, and stopped just under the skin on the otherside of Tony's shoulder. They removed the bullet a little like popping a zit with a scalpel(squeeze, cut, avoid as the round pops out) and then doped him with painkillers.

In, out, about two hours. Shortest visit to the Hospital Tony ever had.

Which is why they were currently back at the office while Tony found the eraser on his pencil incredibly interesting.

"Hey Timster, ever wonder why the eraser is red?" Tony asked, "Purple would look so much better."

They all agreed that ignoring him would be the best thing.

"I don't know, Timmy, they wouldn't murder a cute little lamb for it's blood to dye it," Tony continued, as if Tim had actually answered him, "Would they?"

It was becoming very annoying, especially as Gibbs had to wear a wrist brace and having to drink his coffee left handed. He was half a thought away from punting DiNozzo all the way back to his apartment.

"Agent Gibbs?"

"_What?" _the older man snapped, at the end of his rope.

The speaker, a man of about fifty-five and the haggard look of a hard drinker pulled an ID and badge from his pocket, "Agent Patriks, Office of Naval Intelligence. We need to talk."

**To be continued...**

** And that is it. This has been my most under-reviewed work ever. Now, next story might be a **_**Burn Notice **_**story, but right now I'm leaning toward **_**CSI: Miami.**_


	14. AN

**Okay! Final bit! I finally posted the sequel to **_**KT**_**. It's called **_**Alliance, **_**and it is posted on CSI Miami. Now, I hope you enjoy the fic nearly as much as the show!**

** -Sirscreen**


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